The Things They Carried
by AKA DD
Summary: SPOILER: Playthings S2Ep11. A glimpse inside Dean and his thoughts on being a Winchester: the things they carried on their shoulders.


**DISCLAIMER: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but rather to the genius that is Kripke…and to the bankroll that brings it to us called The CW Network.**

**A/N: This just came to me after seeing Dean's expression in Playthings when Sam asks Dean to make that promise. It made me think of the weight that he carried on his shoulders. And this was the result.**

**Enjoy. Please Read and Review.**

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**THE THINGS THEY CARRIED**

Dean Winchester pushed open the doors to the Roadhouse. He took a step forward, and paused just over the threshold. He blinked slowly a few times, allowing his hazel eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the roadside bar. He wrinkled his nose once, twice, adjusting to the scent of stale beer, the musk of too many unwashed bodies, and the pervasive scent of grease that assaulted his senses.

He felt several eyes on him as he finally stalked towards the bar. Each gaze weighed heavily on him, as if trying to pierce through his skin. They raked over him, measuring, sizing him up.

He maintained his cocky swagger as he continued his approach of the bar. He felt a few of the eyes slide away from him and back to what they had previously rested on: a set of Tarot cards, a dagger being sharpened almost caressingly, the song list on the old jukebox, and into the dark liquid of their drinks.

Those eyes had assessed him right. He was one of them. A Hunter.

Dean relaxed slightly, though there were no visible signs of it, except around the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. They smoothened out from the half-glare he had worn while walking in. Now, all that was left was a hint of wariness.

Because there were still some eyes that remained glued to his form, following his progress from the doorway to the bar.

Hostile. Curious. Suspicious.

_They know about Sam,_ he thought grimly. There was a pang of weariness in the periphery of his consciousness that Dean pushed away. Not-so-long-ago, there were times when he could walk into a place and just be himself. Be Dean. Not necessarily Dean _Winchester_, but just Dean.

Without all the weight of a Winchester attached to his name.

But these days, there was no room for being just Dean. His dad was gone, and he and Sammy were it. _The Winchesters._ _The fucked up Winchesters._

It only took a second for the old anger to roll off his shoulders, before he reached the bar. He smacked his palm down on the wooden surface and grinned at Ellen who finally looked up from a notepad she had been scribbling on.

Ellen smiled kindly at him, turning a hostile place into something that resonated just a little bit of welcome. "I'll be right with you," she mouthed, placing a hand over the phone's receiver.

He gave her a brisk nod in acknowledgement and looked around the establishment.

Some eyes looked away from his gaze, refusing to meet his stare. Others continued to watch him with an odd gleam of challenge, but their faces remained blank. His lips twitched slightly as he recognized the look. Hunters were such closed-off creatures. Even amongst their kind, there was always a wall around each one of them.

He turned away from the other occupants and back at Ellen. She had her dark, slightly greasy hair lose around her face. The phone remained cradled between one cheek and her right shoulder. She had her other hand shoved deep into her apron pocket, and he could distinctly see her fingers working around something in them. Probably a dagger.

He noticed another hunter at the end of the bar, hunched over his drink, a journal open next to him, and a pen lying over a page. The older man turned and their eyes met. He had startlingly blue eyes that looked far younger than his aged face implied. His journal was old, scratched, and leather bound. It was teeming with notes, slips of paper taped or simply shoved hastily within its pages. The pen was a regular black ballpoint, chewed up at the ends, cap missing.

Dean's eyes slid to the seat next to the older man, where a worn ten-gallon cowboy hat rested. It was yellowed with age and sweat, dirty as all hell, clearly having seen better days. Yet, he saw the older man's hand creep slowly towards the hat and lie gently over the brim, patting it, like a trusty sidekick.

Dean's eyes returned to the old man's. They nodded curtly at each other before he turned away.

The things they carried. A dagger in an apron, a sweat stained ten-gallon hat, a worn-out journal. For whatever reasons, these things were always along for the ride.

"All right," said Ellen in that scratchy voice of hers. Then saying her final goodbyes, she hung up the phone, tore off the page from her notepad, and slipped it into her apron. She smiled warmly at Dean again.

"Hey, Ellen," he greeted with a boyish grin of his own.

"Beer?"

"Yeah, the usual."

"Right." She reached under the bar, pulled out a mug, and filled it to the brim from the tap. "Here ya go. Anything else?"

Dean bit his lip cautiously. Too many eyes and ears. "No, no," he said with a shake of his head and a charming smile. "I just needed to get out of the sun. I freckle," he joked.

Ellen eyed him suspiciously, dark brown eyes searching his handsome face. "All right," she said softly. Dean had always been glad of Ellen's discretion. She didn't ask about Sam. She didn't have to. Word traveled fast in their small community. They knew about Gordon.

Worse, they knew about Sam.

Ellen smiled slightly before she turned to the man at the end of the bar.

Dean took his drink, and spun around. He hooked both elbows on the bar, holding the beer mug from the rim with his fingertips. He relaxed his shoulders and watched the room casually.

There was a girl in the corner, dark haired and beautiful in that tough-chick sort of way. She carried an air of perpetual anger: a line between her brows, lips full but sullen, and restless hands that kept touching a small golden cross that hung around her neck. She had attractive hands, though slightly thin. Her nails were painted black. Probably as a fashion statement, probably to hide the dirt under her fingernails, he didn't know.

Dean didn't realize he had been staring at her hands for a while, just caressing that cross, turning it over between her fingertips again and again, until she cleared her throat. He saw the movement more than heard it. His eyes snapped towards hers, and he smiled, oozing charm and appreciation.

She had light gray eyes. He didn't know how he could tell from the distance, but he figured by the way they glittered in the dim light, they had to be close to silver-colored. She scowled at him, and he noticed the way her hand tightened around the cross.

_Oo-kay_. Maybe she wasn't interested.

Dean shrugged exaggeratedly at her then turned away. In moments, he heard the scraping of wood on wood as she slid the seat back. Dean watched from the corner of his eye as the girl stood up, pulled a small duffel over her shoulder and headed for the door.

She tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder as she passed within Dean's line of sight. "See ya, Ellen. Thanks!" she called out. She had a nice alto voice.

"Stop by soon, Dagny," called out Ellen, raising a hand in goodbye.

Dagny caught Dean's eye, smirked then gave him the finger before pushing past the doors and out into the late afternoon. He saw her worn cowboy boots kick up the dust outside, just before the doors slammed shut.

"Danny?" he asked Ellen over his shoulder.

"Yeah, she's named after a girl from a book." The answer didn't come from Ellen, but from the old man at the bar.

Dean pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow in a picture of thoughtfulness. Yeah, he wasn't likely to know exactly what book had named a girl 'Danny'. He wasn't likely to know any kind of book that hadn't been on the must-read-to-graduate list in high school.

"_Atlas Shrugged_," supplied the old man. "It's by Ayn Rand. And it's D-A-G-N-Y."

"There's a 'G', huh? Fancy." smirked Dean, trying to remember if he'd ever heard of Ayn Rand before. He was sure he had, though he probably hadn't been paying attention.

The old man shrugged, not really caring one way or the other.

Dean's eyes touched on the door again, and he heard the old man snort. "She's not interested in anything she's not hunting."

"I wasn't."

"Sure, you weren't."

Dean scowled at the older man, who looked at him with twinkling eyes. "My name's Coop," he offered, though he didn't extend his hand out or anything else.

"Dean…"

"…Winchester, I know." Finished Coop.

"Right." Dean grimaced in consternation. Everywhere he went, he carried the name. Even before he ever established who he was, he was already a Winchester. The things they carried.

"You don't look much like your father," murmured Coop.

"So?" Dean snorted inelegantly. It wasn't a matter of whether he looked like John or talked like John or acted like John. He was still John Winchester's son. And that still meant he carried John Winchester's burdens.

Coop assessed him with piercing blue eyes. "Just pointing out a fact, boy," he said gruffly. Dean smirked, but said nothing.

"Still got John's journal?"

Dean glanced suspiciously at old Coop, who just started chuckling. "Don't look like him, but he's in you, all right," he grinned, showing chipped, yellowed teeth. "Now, relax, don't get all suspicious now. That journal was everything to him."

With a curt nod, Dean agreed. His dad had carried that journal through everything, up til the day he left it for the boys to find. That journal had been John's burden—but he had passed it on to his sons.

"My journal comes with me through everything, too," commented Coop. "My hat, my journal, my gun, and my truck."

Dean realized that Coop had, in essence, summed up his whole life. These were the things he carried as he trekked across the United States. Things that remained a constant in his life, probably keeping him sane after all these years.

"I don't have a hat," Dean commented.

Coop chuckled. "Was a gift from my wife. Got one of those, too?"

"Oh God, no," drawled Dean, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. A wife? For Dean Winchester? Not likely to be one of the things he'd carry around with him in this lifetime.

Coop studied him carefully, and Dean had to throw him a sidelong glance, somewhat irritated by the close scrutiny. "Didn't your wife ever teach you that staring is impolite?"

"She used to stare at me all the time," quipped Coop. "So, I doubt she'd have told me she was being impolite."

There was a tender note in Coop's voice, but Dean had continued to note the past tense that surrounded his wife. He didn't ask, and Coop didn't tell. Just like Dean never asked his dad about his mom. And John never told. Mary's memory was his alone.

"You got a journal, boy?"

"No, not that either," he replied curtly. "I don't like a paper trail."

Coop shrugged. "Well, in any case, just wanted to return something to ya." With that, he slid a piece of paper across the space that separated them. Dean grudgingly accepted it, and turned it over. It was old, faded, the ink running on certain wet spots, but it was clear what was on it.

_Call Dean. He can help_. And right under the caption was his old cellphone number, the one he had before the accident, scribbled in his father's recognizable scrawl.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Coop. "You realize that your club membership card has expired," he drawled.

Coop snorted slightly. "I don't expect to be renewing soon,"

"Good," replied Dean downing the rest of his beer. "Cuz I'm not taking any more applications."

"Reckon your plate's full just about now," commented Coop.

Dean didn't bother with a reply. Everyone knew about his business already, no need to bother confirming what was already fact.

Coop stood up to leave. He was a tall man, though age had stooped him a bit from his lofty height. He took a moment to work the kinks out of his joints before he slipped the worn pen into a little loop, and flipped his journal shut. He jammed the Cowboy hat onto his head, and Dean noted the perfect fit. He tilted the brim towards Ellen, "Thanks, Ellen, a pleasure as always."

"Always, Coop," she smiled back at him. She handed him a brown manila envelope, probably information for his next hunt, before sending him off with a wave.

Coop turned to Dean, and with a curt nod just like their first greeting, they said their goodbyes.

Dean didn't bother to look as Coop left the Roadhouse. He might have been inching towards sixty, but the man's footsteps remained solid and sure. Dean stood up from the bar and started weaving his way towards the restroom.

He swiftly walked inside and shut the door behind him, wrinkling his nose at the smell that surrounded him. The place was starting to need another Jo. Not that he thought Jo had only ever been good serving and wiping down the already clean bar—the girl had showed some spunk—but the place needed another _someone_ to keep up with the traffic of Hunters and non-hunters going through the place.

He braced himself over the sink and turned the water on. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He saw Dean, the handsome, cocky sonofabitch with the hazel-green eyes, and the quirky mouth. The guy who walked with a swagger and winked at pretty girls who passed by.

But if he looked deeper, he saw Dean Winchester: Hunter, haunted; with hazel-green eyes that were tired at the corners, mouth often pulled down into a frown or pressed tightly together in anger. He was the guy who staggered underneath the weight on his shoulders.

"Damn you, Dad," he whispered angrily as he pulled out the slip of paper Coop had given to him earlier from his back pocket. Even without his knowledge, John had continued to pile heavy weights on his shoulders. He had told others to lean on him like he was some fucking pillar of strength. What gave his father the right to do that?

Dean stared at his father's handwriting, recognizing the loops of the numbers and the boldness of the lines. How many times over his youth had his father left him a set of phone numbers to call in cases of emergency? Too many times.

With an angry grunt, he crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it into the bowl, then reached over with his boot to flush it down for good.

His face crumpled momentarily, feeling near to tears as he watched the paper swirl around briefly before disappearing.

He was just so _fucking _tired.

For a moment, he had wanted to throw everything that he carried on his shoulders down that toilet bowl and watch it flush away into nothingness.

He wanted to toss in the stupid keys to the Impala. It had been his father's car, and it had been handed down to him to continue the hunt. It was the biggest symbol of the things he carried: his legacy as Dean _Winchester_.

Then the leather jacket that hung on his back. The gun tucked in his waistband. The dagger around his calf. The tools of his trade.

Then he wanted to tear off the necklace around his neck and throw it into the pile, too. Then maybe the ring on his finger. Little trinkets that reminded him of past hunts. But he realized that they were just more things he carried with him…memories he would rather actually forget.

He would toss in the boots, too. Yeah, his boots. They were scuffed and scratched, dusty and bloodstained. Too much blood had spilled over his boots. Too many had died at his feet.

And when that was all done, he wanted to throw himself down and flush himself to nothingness.

Because even if had thrown away everything he owned…the biggest burdens he carried were all still inside of him. And right now, they made him sick. With a groan, he fell to his knees and grabbed the edges of the bowl just seconds before he hurled the contents of his stomach out.

He threw up until there was nothing but bile that burned his throat and tears that trailed hotly down his cheeks. But his stomach continued to heave until he was too tired.

He felt empty.

But still incredibly heavy.

He slowly got off his knees, a movement that was almost painful, muscles aching from the tension and gut-wrenching. Purposefully, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He saw himself in the mirror again. He saw a man with red-rimmed hazel eyes, a sheen of tears reflecting the fluorescent light; pale, drawn-out features splotched with red from his exertions; mouth slack and dirty, lips drawn into a tired grimace; wide shoulders that drooped forward more than they should for such a young man; and hands that trembled as they sought the knobs on the sink to turn on the water.

This…_this_ was Dean Winchester.

He heard the water running but he couldn't make a move just yet. Another emotion, this time darker, rose from within.

His hands gripped the sink, fingers almost breaking off the porcelain. He took a shaky breath in, and released it in small, controlled gasps. His forearms bulged, biceps curled, and shoulders tensed.

Rage.

He held his breath, working against the anger that exploded inside of him.

Twenty-eight seconds. He shook. A vein throbbed in his neck—the jugular. Pounding away under the increasing pressure of his blood as he continued to hold his breath.

Forty-nine seconds. Another vein protruded over his forehead. Sweat beaded his brow, his face turning red. But still the rage boiled.

A minute. His nose dripped, his eyes half-shut, his body shook spasmodically, tight like a coiled spring, energy barely contained.

A minute and a half. Rage that barely boiled over the surface—this was Dean Winchester. Filled with an anger that stemmed from the weight of the things he carried. A weight he struggled with everyday.

Finally, he lost count. He gasped for breath, spent. The tension that he had maintained with his body throughout finally eased and his muscles ached.

He leaned his forearms on the sink, his head hanging limply just over the faucet. "Damn you, Dad…" he muttered. "_Fuck you, Sam!_"

Because the heaviest weight he carried inside wasn't a thing. It wasn't even many things combined. It was a single promise to two people. A promise to pull the trigger on his brother.

But he didn't know if he could. How would he know when it was time? Between too soon and too late…Dean didn't have a clue when was when. All he knew was that he had better learn to look at Sam…and not see that he was a Winchester, too. He was just Sam.

Just like he was just Dean.

He sniffled and slowly ran his hand under the cold running water. He shivered against the contact, but kept his hands under the water until they acclimated to the temperature.

He leaned forward and splashed some of the cold water on his face. He pulled out a bunch of hand towels and wiped his face vigorously with them. When he looked back at the mirror…he looked like Dean.

He walked out of the restroom, caught a few irate glares because of how long he was in there, and sat back down on his stool at the bar.

Ellen's concerned eyes wandered over him. "Okay?"

"Yeah, bad sushi," he lied with a smile that could have charmed a cobra. "But I did have a question for you, though." He pulled a photograph from his right pocket and slid it towards Ellen.

She stared down at it, brows raised. "Who's this?"

Dean leaned forward on his forearms, casually linking his fingers together. "Ava Wilson. Sam and I've been looking for her for the past week and a half."

"Mind if I ask why?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but caught himself just in time, smiling widely at her instead. "Oh, well, you know Sammy," he grinned. "He had an attack of the guilty conscience, if you know what I mean."

Ellen rolled her eyes. "He's a good kid,"

"Yeah, well I keep telling him to let it go,"

She shrugged and took one more glance at the picture before Dean slid it away. "I'll keep my eyes and ears peeled for anything." She promised,

Dean stood up, slipping the photograph back into his pocket. "Thanks, Ellen, I appreciate it."

She grabbed his wrist just before he pulled it off the bar, and leaned forward. "You don't come to the Roadhouse to look for a girl from a one night stand, Dean," she warned in a low, barely audible voice. "I won't ask, and don't tell me, but next time, don't try to pull a fast one on me, got it?"

Dean gave her a contrite look. "Got it." He nodded briskly. "Don't ask, won't tell. Except that it's really important."

"Good."

She released his wrist and he shoved his hands into his pockets, almost like an errant school boy. "Well, I gotta get back."

"One moment," she said, and pulled a slip of paper from her apron. Dean just barely caught a glimpse of the handle of her dagger. "This is from Coop."

Dean reached for the piece of paper and saw the old man's scrawl.

_If you need anything, call my daughter, Dagny. (707)555-0430_. _She can help._

Dean couldn't suppress the small chuckle that came out of him. But he handed the slip of paper back to Ellen with a shake of his head. "Tell Coop, when you see him again, that I said 'thanks', but 'no, thanks'. Tell him, I'm returning the favor."

Ellen shrugged and took the piece of paper back, the slip going into her apron pocket again.

"The things I'm gonna face…they're not hers to carry," he said by way of explanation.

"You're gonna need help, Dean," cautioned Ellen.

"I know," he smiled. "But only if Dagny comes to me herself…or I kick up the courage to go to her."

Ellen chuckled lightly. "Point taken."

"See ya, Ellen," he said with a light wave, and stalked out the doors.

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Sam was asleep by the time Dean got back to their motel. He had made sure no one had followed him. They were still hunters, and not everyone was gunning for them. But still, there were some out there just like Gordon who believed that stopping Sam was saving the world.

Dean watched his brother's sleeping form for a moment.

Sammy looked tired, too. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and even in his sleep, he frowned. He had a new cast on his hand because he had ruined the other one by jumping into the pool to save the little girl's life.

Dean knew that Sam carried his own burdens, too. Some of them, he would probably never know about. And that was just fine with him.

He sighed heavily and raked a hand through his light brown hair.

He had told himself that he had to learn to stop seeing Sam as Sammy Winchester. He had to learn to forget that he and Sam were it: the Winchesters. He had to forget because he might have to pull the trigger on Sam.

Dean closed his eyes tightly, recognizing one more secret he carried inside that made his soul heavier.

After that, he would pull the trigger on himself.

Because they were Dean and Sam Winchester. No matter what.

Their names and their legacy: they were the things they carried.


End file.
